The Angel of Death
The Angel of Death was much smaller than I expected. I had been waiting by my wife's bedside for days, and when I looked out the window and saw it fluttering through the twilight like a black lace handkerchief, its irregular wings chaotically floundering as though it were not really designed for flight, I was caught off guard. It seemed so much less ominous than what I expected. On an impulse, I shut the window from which I had been gazing, but of course the Angel of Death got in, passing through the pane of glass as though it were air. It settled on her breast and hopped about like a sparrow. I guess I could have swatted it away, but I stood in respectful silence as it probed deep in her breast with its silver sword, like a mosquito searching for the blood flow. Finally it caught something and lifted, pulling her soul free and tossing it into the air as the final breath creaked from her lips and the room, the whole world, shimmered and was filled with water.
Copyright 2002 by John Clinbrohf. Permission is granted to print single copies of this story to read or share with others. The story may not be altered in any way, and must include this copyright notice.
